


Hatchet Man

by noodlecatposts



Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [8]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Feyre Hires The Bat Boys, One-Sided Feyre Archeron/Tamlin, Popular Tumblr Prompts With a Twist, To Get "Rid" of Tamlin, mayhem ensues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23041009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noodlecatposts/pseuds/noodlecatposts
Summary: hatchet man, noun1: one hired for murder, coercion, or attack2a: a writer specializing in invective2b: a person hired to perform underhanded or unscrupulous tasks (as to ruin someone's reputation)
Relationships: Azriel & Cassian & Rhysand (ACoTaR), Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Series: ACOTAR Tumblr Requests [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1612852
Comments: 14
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> @thesirenwashere and @crackedship on tumblr suggested this prompt.  
> so, here we are!

## One

Feyre gets the phone number from a friend of a friend.

Suriel slides a nondescript business card onto the table as she passes by. Feyre and Suriel see each other every morning, both slaves to the coffee gods, but they’ve spoken very little. So, this is a weird development; Feyre arches a brow in question.

“To solve your problem,” the woman’s pale skin contrasts starkly against the dark lipstick she wears, and her eyebrow piercing glints in the morning light. Feyre thinks Suriel looks pretty badass, and she’s utterly certain that Suriel could kick her ass.

“Problem…” Feyre trails off. She’s at a loss.

Suriel’s smile is malicious. “Your boyfriend problem.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Feyre hisses. It’s instinctive.

“Exactly,” Suriel tells her. “Hence your problem, no?”

Feyre frowns in response, but the other woman leaves without further explanation, not that Feyre expects one. She picks the card up and examines it. It’s as minimalist as a business card can get: a phone number printed in beautiful black type against white cardstock.

There’s no name.

Feyre slips the card into her wallet because it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that one leaves behind. Who knows what phone number Suriel gave Feyre; that girl is weird. It could be anything. Feyre does not intend to find out.

—

He strikes during Feyre’s lunch hour. 

That’s the problem with sharing a life with someone for over a year; they know the in’s and out’s of your schedule, down to your inevitable craving for the sandwich cart on the third floor where they sell the best tuna melt in Prythian.

Tamlin is waiting for her, lunch in hand, and Feyre’s heart falls at the sight of him. How dare this man ruin her hallowed lunch routine? On the walk over, Feyre considers taking a sharp left and leaving the vicinity. She could go down the street to another favored restaurant of hers, but Feyre’s been craving this sandwich all week. She’s not going to let Tamlin ruin it.

“Feyre!” Those spring green eyes light up with excitement at the sight of her. Feyre grimaces and doesn’t bother to hide it. “I’ve already got our lunch. Let’s find a seat.”

A surge of anger hits her. That always bothered her about Tamlin. He micromanaged her: making plans without consulting Feyre, ordering their dinner without letting her look at the menu, and telling her what she should and shouldn’t wear—down to the shade of lipstick.

He’s probably got her the wrong sandwich. To add insult to injury.

“Actually, Tamlin,” Feyre says, grabbing her wallet and claiming her own food off the cart. She hands the clerk a bill to pay for it and spins on her heels. “I’m taking my lunch to go actually. Maybe next time.”

The moron follows after her.

“I thought we might go to the opera this weekend,” Tamlin says, keeping pace with her shorter legs easily. It’s infuriating being so short. Feyre speeds up her steps; Tamlin adjusts accordingly. “Lucien’s looking into tickets.”

“I’ve got plans,” Feyre tells him. She doesn’t, but that’s none of his business.

That causes Tamlin to miss a step. His eyes shine with suspicion. “Do you have a date?”

“Does it matter if I did?” Feyre growls, ducking her head. She considers running into the ladies’ room, but at this point, she wouldn’t put it past Tamlin to follow her in there.

“Yes,” Tamlin’s voice is cold. It makes Feyre shiver. She’s seen glimpses of this side of Tamlin, and they’re what helped her move on. She was afraid of ever getting a real look at what’s hiding there beneath the surface, were she to ever get sick of being compliant.

 _Too bad_ , she wants to tell him. Instead, Feyre says, “Tamlin, need I remind you that we broke up—two months ago.”

“We had a fight, and you overreacted,” Tamlin counters and Feyre’s hackles rise.

“I _moved out_ ,” Feyre snarls. Other people in the office space look in their direction. Good, Tamlin doesn’t like to cause a scene. “I took all of my things from your house, and I _left_ you.”

Tamlin’s eyes shine with a warning. “Let’s talk about this later, once you’ve calmed down.”

“I don’t need to calm down!” Feyre exclaims. “And we don’t need to talk about it! But I do need you to leave me alone!”

Tamlin glares at her, “Feyre—”

“Tamlin, go _away!_ ” She kicks open the door to the ladies’ room. Apparently, Feyre is going to relive her middle school days today and eat lunch into the bathroom. She’s only going to hope Tamlin doesn’t follow her in.

—

Tamlin doesn’t, but her lunch is ruined anyway.

Feyre is so furious that her cherished tuna melt tastes like ash as she eats it. She growls, chucking the rest of the sandwich into the trash and glaring at herself. Feyre’s a grown woman; she should not be hiding from her ex-boyfriend in the bathroom during lunch.

“That’ll teach you to date at work,” Feyre tells herself, pointing one accusing finger at her reflection. The other Feyre points an accusing finger back at her, transferring the blame. “Now, I have to fix it.”

Feyre breaks out her wallet and digs the business card out. Suriel doesn’t seem like the type to play a massive prank on someone. She’s a horrible gossip, but she usually means well. Feyre types the number into her phone quickly, thumb hovering over the call button.

“Why the hell not?” Feyre mumbles to herself, pressing call. “Things definitely can’t get any worse.”

The phone rings twice before someone answers. A deep, smooth says, “State your problem.”

“The demise of proper phone etiquette,” Feyre quips back without thinking it through. She is hoping this person will help her after all, and Feyre does have a problem. It’s probably best not to piss them off.

“Indeed, it is a real crisis,” the voice says. It’s male, and if Feyre isn’t mistaken, he sounds amused. “However, I don’t believe that’s the issue your calling about.”

Feyre huffs a laugh, “No, sadly. We’ll leave that to another vigilante.”

“Vigilante,” the voice purrs. “I like that.”

There’s a long pause. Feyre watches herself in the mirror while she waits for the man to say something else. He doesn’t.

“My ex-boyfriend and I don’t see eye to eye about our breakup,” Feyre tells the stranger, and her stomach falls. She never thought she’d be in this position, asking a stranger for help getting rid of her clingy ex.

Another pause. “Trying to win you back?”

“Doesn’t believe we broke up.” Feyre clarifies, “I moved out two months ago.”

“Nice,” the man clicks his tongue. “Stalking?”

“Um,” Feyre thinks it over. “More like persistent. We work together. It’s hard to catch a break.”

A hiss. “Dating in the workplace. Always a terrible idea.”

“Yeah,” Feyre agrees. “Lesson learned.”

“Abusive?”

“Controlling is the word I’d use,” Feyre tells the stranger, downplaying the reasons she left him.

“Is there a difference?” The man asks, and Feyre flushes at being called out.

Another click of the tongue, “Very well. We’ll take your case.”

“We? Case?” Feyre asks, surprised.

“It would appear you have a bit of a problem,” the voice tells her. “My associates and I are going to take care of it. First, we need to meet face to face. I’ll text you the details.”

“Okay,” Feyre breathes, brow furrowed in confusion. She’s not sure what she expected, but this isn’t it.

“Have a good rest of your day,” the voice tells her. “The good phone etiquette comes free of charge.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No problem.” There’s a ghost of a laugh, and then the line goes dead.

 _My associates and I are going to take care of it_ , the man said. 

“Shit,” Feyre hisses, glancing up to her reflection in disbelief. “Did I just hire an assassin?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is so overdue. sorry!

## Two.

**Tomorrow. Veritas Coffee Shop 11 am. Don’t be late.**

Feyre stared at the screen for hours after receiving the message. In her free moments at work, she’d pull her phone back out and check, wanting to make sure it was real, that she hadn’t finally gone off the deep end and imagined everything. She had to be dreaming, right? Feyre was going to wake up any second and just—laugh.

But she didn’t. At the end of the day, the message was still there, and Feyre had yet to wake up from one hell of a dream.

**How am I supposed to know who you are?**

Feyre sends the message on the bus ride home, trying not to stress over the situation at hand. Perhaps, she should tell someone, let them know where she was going, what she was up to. She calls Elain, the nicest of her sisters; Nesta would totally call her an idiot and hang up.

“Feyre, what if they’re just trying to lure you in and kidnap you?” Elain’s sweet voice asks, soft and worried. She was definitely the right sister to call. “Or, worse, murder you!”

“That’s a pretty weird system to attract victims,” Feyre tells her dryly, thinking it all over. She breathes out a laugh, tugging at the end of her braid. “Or, a really fucking brilliant one.”

“You’re not easing my worries,” Elain says, sounding agitated. Well, as upset as Elain ever sounds; come to think of it, Feyre doesn’t know if she’s ever heard the younger of her two sisters raise her voice.

Elain sighs, resigning herself quickly to Feyre’s reckless plans. They’ve been sisters for over twenty years; she knows its fruitless to argue. “You have to be really careful, Fey. Meeting people on the internet is dangerous.”

Okay. So, Feyre may have bent the truth just a tad to her sister, but there was no way in hell she was about to tell Elain that one of her weird coworkers gave her a mysterious business card to get rid of her stalker ex-boyfriend.

Yeah, Feyre had a feeling that that story would sound even worse out loud than it did in her head. _Way_ worse.

“Which is why I called my loving sister,” Feyre jests. She’s just barely able to make out Elain’s soft scoff in response. “This way, someone knows where I am and can check in on me. You know, when I inevitably go missing.”

“You are not as funny as you think you are, Feyre Archeron,” Elain scolds her. Feyre was too young when their mother passed to be able to remember much about her, but she’s nearly confident that Elain sounds something like her in this moment, frustrated and fond.

“I’m hilarious,” Feyre defends. Elain sighs.

“We should just come with you,” her sister tells her. “We’ll sit at another table while you meet your date. _Oh_! That’s just a lovely idea. I’ll call Nesta now, and we can—”

“Do not,” Feyre pleads, “get Nesta involved in this. You know how she can be.”

She sounds desperate enough that she attracts the attention of the nearby passengers. Feyre keeps her eyes trained on nothing, refusing to meet the gaze of anyone nearby. Cauldron forbid that someone who knows her overhears this.

Another sigh. “Okay, but you have to text me as soon as you get there. And again, as soon as it’s over—Oh, and every half hour.”

Feyre lets the smile win. “Of course, El. Thank you.”

“Don’t think that I won’t march down there if you ignore me,” Elain tells her fiercely, and for some strange reason, tears prick at Feyre’s eyes. Elain is such a great sister. “I am _not_ afraid to embarrass my little sister, okay?”

Feyre bites back a sniffle. “Okay.”

—

**Just look for the most handsome man you’ve ever seen.**

Feyre snorts loudly and unattractively at the message she wakes up to in the morning. She’s so going to get murdered by this mystery vigilante-assassin. Well, that’s one way to solve her problem, Feyre guesses. If she’s dead, Tamlin can’t vex her any more.

**Handsome is a relative term… Any identifying clothing? A name, perhaps?**

She gets up and gets ready for the day, pushing aside her nervousness and focusing on making herself presentable. Feyre isn’t sure what she should wear to meet with a possible assassin. Does one dress to impress? Maybe she should dress low-key, fly under the radar. It seems like a bad idea to be recognizable while plotting a crime.

**Back table. Far-right by the kitchen.**

Feyre’s thumbs hover over the keyboard, contemplating just how much snark is appropriate. She figures it’ll be fine. Right?

**Sunglasses? An impressive wart? A neighborhood watch badge?**

The man doesn’t respond right away; Feyre waits just a little longer than she maybe should have, hoping that he might. When it becomes clear that a comeback isn’t imminent, Feyre drops the phone on her bed and rushes to finish getting ready. She doesn’t want to be late.

If it weren’t for the ominous tone of this meeting, it almost could be a date. She certainly feels nervous enough. Feyre snorts, scolding herself softly under her breath.

“You need to get out more,” Feyre tells her reflection as she finishes her makeup. Another laugh. “Because you have got to stop talking to yourself.”

—

As she enters the coffee shop, Feyre tries her best not to search the dining area too desperately, looking for the self-proclaimed “most handsome man ever.” Feyre can feel herself blushing at the thought as she scans the tables casually, pretending that she’s just searching for a friend. It’s just a typical Saturday Morning Coffee date.

Cauldron, Feyre needs to get laid.

 _Back table, far right_ , the message said this morning. Feyre’s eyes follow the line of tables towards the one closest to the kitchen double doors. She considers it a terrible seat choice, sitting beside the doors to the chaos that is a restaurant kitchen.

As promised, a man is sitting at the table. His head is bent over a cellphone, ignoring the rest of the world and blocking his profile from view. Feyre heads straight that way, eager and nervous.

“So,” she begins in a lighthearted tone. “I see that your manners lack in public, too, and not just the phone—Noted.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had such a stickler for manners hire me before,” a deep masculine voice responds, laughter underlining the tone. He doesn’t look up right away, choosing to finish the message he’s scribing; Feyre doesn’t think that’s very smart. She could be a murder.

The thought makes her snort aloud. She blushes furiously.

Her coffee date—correction: assassin for hire—looks up at her with a smirk and sparkling, bottomless blue eyes. Feyre’s breath catches in her throat at the sight of him, that blush of hers only growing. 

_Shit_ , he really is the most handsome man she’s ever seen—the most attractive person in general.

Feyre takes her seat without a snarky comeback, muted by the revelation. The two of them hold each other’s stare for just a few moments too long. It would appear that Feyre is not the only one taken aback by this meeting, by seeing one another, she thinks. The face makes her feel at least a little better.

The mysterious man’s eyes sparkle with interest. “Nor do I think I’ve ever had a client so beautiful.”

Feyre has to force a scowl on her face to hide the blush spreading up her neck and heating her cheeks, darkening by the second. She takes a second to remind herself that this guy is no improvement over Tamlin; Feyre is sure he’s some kind of paid-killer. She definitely plans to _murder_ Suriel except—

“I don’t want to kill anybody,” Feyre blurts tactlessly, remembering her earlier fears.

The man’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. Then to her horror, he smiles brilliantly, face full of amusement; the expression reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a disastrously attractive manner. He grins. “What a disappointment.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she continues. Feyre can’t stop herself; she keeps going, even though she can hear herself babbling to this complete stranger. “Sometimes, I’d like nothing more than to just—like, strangle the bastard.” She clenches her fists in the air for emphasis. “But, I don’t want him _dead_.”

The amusement doesn’t’ fade from the stranger’s face. He tilts his head to the side, listening to her raving. “No?”

“No!” She breathes exasperated. Feyre throws her hands into the air. “I just want him to _leave me the fuck alone_! Like—Cauldron!—I moved out in the middle of the day, in broad daylight. All of the neighbors watched,” she exclaims, narrowing her eyes. “How does he not get it?”

Those blue eyes glance around the coffee shop. His smile stays strong as he says, “Perhaps, we should speak a little more quietly?”

“Oh!” Feyre slaps a hand over her mouth. Her expression is sheepish, but the man sitting across from her breaks into laughter. It strikes her that his laugh is a beautiful sound, and she smiles, feeling a little reassured by his enjoyment.

“Allow me to let you in on a secret,” the stranger whispers, leaning across the table and smiling conspiratorially. Feyre mirrors the gesture, drawn in by the stars in his eyes. “I don’t kill people.”

“Oh.” Feyre blinks; she flops back in her chair and frowns. “Really?”

A chuckle and a dazzling smile. “Why do you seem so disappointed by that?” He lays a hand on his chest in insult. “I’m offended.”

“Well, then what’s with all the—” Feyre vaguely waves her hands. “—secrecy and business cards and surreptitious meetings?”

This time his laugh is full. It’s probably not a good thing that this mysterious stranger’s laughter fills Feyre with such a sense of pride, but she chooses to narrow her eyes at him rather than gape at him like a fool. Screw her heart for racing in pleasure.

“Because,” he says, his tone suggesting that the reason should be apparent to her. The man smiles around his words as he talks. “Some people would still consider what my associates and I do _illegal_. But we simply… solve people’s problems.”

“Like stalker ex-boyfriend problems,” Feyre concludes, looking thoughtful. At last, it dawns on her, and she smiles, delighted. “You’re a Fixer.”

His full lips curve into a smile. “Yes, something like that.”


End file.
